


cursed

by fugitives



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Introspection, also maybe inspiration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 06:53:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/684095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fugitives/pseuds/fugitives
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shortly after Gandalf storms away from the Company, he runs into a not-very-old friend. Some parallels are drawn with a certain Dwarf prince.</p>
            </blockquote>





	cursed

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know what possessed me to write this, and it's not my best piece of writing certainly, but it's something I needed to get out. Apologies beforehand for any technical inaccuracies.

“And who is that?”

“Myself, Mr. Baggins! I’ve had enough of Dwarves for one day!”

And Gandalf meant it, long after the Company was out of earshot. He continued his angry march through the trees till he came to a small, well-trodden path, hidden but for the wizard’s knack for uncovering lost things. He smiled to himself. Few others knew this path and fewer still had use for it. Straying far from the quest’s path, he slowed down to a leisurely pace and followed the trail until it joined the ancient road.

Amon Sul was still a marvel to behold, even after suffering great destruction at the hands of the Witch-king. Gandalf climbed the beaten steps up to the top. This had once been a great circular room. From it, the wardens of old could look out all over the surrounding land and keep the peace on the ancient road of kings. The Palantir of Arnor had been housed here, now lost forever in the icy currents of Drengist, along with the last king. He sighed wistfully. It had been a great kingdom, Arnor, before the infighting. Even after the Witch-king had bore down upon them with his terrible might, Arnor held still.

For a while, at least.

“I did not expect to see you in this part of the country at this time of the year, Gandalf.” The crisp, stern voice of the Ranger startled him. He had not heard him coming, but then again, stealth was a skill every Ranger should possess. And this young one had done so well.

“I did not expect to see you this far from Rivendell, Aragorn son of Arathorn.”

The young man, the shadow of a beard still fresh upon his chin, laughed and lowered the hood of his cloak. “I should learn to call the Wild my home if I wish to master it.”

“None may master the Wild,” said Gandalf. He sat on a wayward slab of stone. It might have been a toppled pillar. Aragorn joined him and removed his waterskin, taking a drink from it and offering it to the wizard. “But one may learn it,” Gandalf finished for him and took the waterskin from him.

“Am I not the lost heir to this kingdom?” said Aragorn with a bitter laugh. “The heir to ruins and ghosts of my forefathers. A responsibility that I never wanted. One day I was Estel and I could ride with the sons of Elrond without care. The next, I was Aragorn, Chieftain of the Dunedain and now they look at me as if I were a stranger.”

“It’s called respect, my dear boy.”

“How can it be respect when we have known each other since I was but a child?” Aragorn grinned at him. “At least some things never change.”

“I will have to call you ‘my lord’ some day, mind you.”

The young Ranger grew solemn. “But what if I don’t want that day to come?”

“You are the heir of Isildur, Aragorn.”

“And I don’t want any part of it!” Aragorn got to his feet, agitation in his voice. “I am content with being a Ranger for the rest of my life. I have no desire to ascend any throne, whether it be my birthright or not.”

“Then what are you going to do about it? Run away until your days are ended and you can finally shed the burden onto your son? Then I say that you are a fool, son of Arathorn.”

He turned his face away. When Gandalf had first laid eyes on Aragorn, he knew that somehow, the days of the exiled king would come to an end. In that young, stern face was etched a grace and wisdom that had been nurtured by Elrond. Even at an early age, he possessed the bearing of a man poised to be King. A natural leader, a wise leader, one to whom Men would pledge their swords to. But at the same time, he was only but 27 years of age. He had only ventured out into the Wild four summers ago in the manner of his people. His blood was still hot and the fires of youth burned still in his heart, leaving room for mistakes and folly.

And in him, Gandalf saw Thorin Oakenshield. A different sort of Dwarf he would have become if the dragon had not robbed him of his birthright. Sometimes, when Thorin had flown into his famous fits of brooding rage, Gandalf observed nothing but sorrow and dismay in Balin’s eyes. Or he would simply look away and shake his head.

But Aragorn was not yet spoilt by the world. He came into the world with nothing and from there be must build his own legacy for himself. Humility was already in his nature, and in the House of Elrond he learned diplomacy and the value of gentle speech. But Men were proud, just as Dwarves could be, and the pride of Men had led to their downfall many a time.

Aragorn was only too painfully aware of this.

“I have many fears, Gandalf,” said the Ranger finally, turning to glance at him. “I fear that this path that I have to take will lead me into a darkness that I cannot turn back from. A darkness that will become a sickness inside me.”

“You fear the curse of Men,” Gandalf replied. “It is not a bad thing. The fallen kings—”

“You mean the Nine,” he muttered.

“Yes, yes, the Nine,” Gandalf replied solemnly. “You are not them, Aragorn.”

“But I am descended from them, am I not? Men are Men, Dunedain or not. We are all the same.”

“It is not wrong to be proud. Pride has driven many to greatness.”

“And it has also driven them to madness! To despair and wretchedness!” Aragorn got to his feet and paced restlessly. The wizard was more than mildly annoyed. He too stood and slammed his staff onto the ground with such force that all of Amon Sul trembled and the Ranger halted and looked on at him in wonder and fear, for in that moment Gandalf seemed like a fair doomsman than a wizened old man.

“I do not believe that is your destiny.” His other hand held onto the staff and he was once again Gandalf, not Mithrandir with the chilling gift of foresight and wisdom that only the Eldar of old seemed to possess.

“That is what Elrond said.”

“Then why do you doubt yourself still?”

“I have no use for a sceptre and a crown. I am content to live as it is, in the Wild. To safeguard this realm with my kin.”

“I don’t know why you should be so worried then,” said Gandalf, furrowing his bushy brows so that Aragorn could not help but laugh at his antics. This drew a smile from the wizard, despite his best intentions. “It seems to me that you are already well on your way to breaking the curse.”

“Maybe,” he replied with a grim smile.

They remained in silence for a few moments. Gandalf’s thoughts had returned to the Company, being no longer angry with any of them. He thought now of how he could persuade Thorin to let himself be led to Rivendell. He could not be reasoned easily especially when it concerned Elves.

“What troubles you?”

“I have need of Elrond’s counsel.”

“But…?”

“But…” Gandalf doubted if he should talk of the quest to Aragorn. He knew that the Ranger could be trusted. Anyway, if they ran into an trouble on the Road, the Rangers could prove to be valuable allies. He decided that he would honour Thorin’s wish. Well, not exactly.

“Is there another way in?”


End file.
